


Battle Royal

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, One (1) profanity, Pop Culture, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, also this is the most ridiculous thing i've ever written, the title is not a typo but in fact a pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: 100% ridiculously stupid, tooth-rotting fluff, because I couldn't get it out of my head and I feel I owe everyone for what I did in Breathing.





	Battle Royal

Clark Kent was a firm believer that a home was imprinted by the emotions of its family. Step in the front door and the atmosphere of a place would fill your lungs and whisper secrets in your ear about the lives of the people who claimed it. Not all buildings could speak like this, or even all houses, but homes? Homes spoke.

Clark had sampled all the shades of Wayne Manor over the years. His first invitation upstairs had come when Dick was just a boy, a gangly child still growing into his hands and feet. Clark had known already of Bruce’s history, of his parents’ death and subsequent zeal that evolved into costumed vigilantism, of Dick’s adoption and their rapidly formed but unbreakable bond. So perhaps it was his own subconscious speaking when he first stepped into the Manor proper, but he could have sworn he tasted the change in the air. It had been like walking into a long-empty country estate that was waking to welcome its owner. There were still traces of cobwebs lingering in untouched corners and the stale taste of dust on his tongue, but the air echoed with the phantom cracks of whipped away sheets and the halls swelled with the cleansing breath of flung open doors and spring air. Despite not having been around before Dick’s arrival, Clark could sense the change that the boy had brought.

Clark had felt the change again when Dick had left, storming off in high dudgeon to Bludhaven and Nightwing. The sadness and uncertainty had been evident in the dim sunlight and quiet corridors. That had been a short-lived atmosphere, though—quickly and almost brutally swept away by the arrival of Jason. With Jason, the Manor had been brighter, louder, more unpredictable. Dick had brought life to the Manor, but Jason had brought passion. 

The Manor had fairly screamed with pain after Jason’s death. Visiting Bruce had felt like tiptoeing through a graveyard, but one from a horror movie, where the shambling undead waited around every corner. In the end, that particular feeling had proven too prophetic for Clark’s tastes.

Clark knew the Manor’s moods. He had passed through its atmosphere, letting himself greet it in times of joy and sorrow, confusion and turmoil. In many ways, the Manor was far more expressive than its owner, and Clark appreciated the aid it gave in decoding the veritable sphinx he called a friend. In times of crisis, the bits Clark gleaned from the Manor gave him context and insight. In times of tranquility, he basked in the confirmation that all was well.

The Manor had been at peace for months now. There was a serenity that warmed its fixtures like sunlight, and its once-sluggish veins had started pumping with life again. Clark could feel the home’s heartbeat as soon as he stepped through the door, and it made him smile.

Which is why Clark was more than a little surprised by the screams coming from downstairs. 

Clark and Bruce sat in the den, quiet conversation forgotten, as they listened to the brawl happening several doors down and a floor away. Bruce had his head slightly tilted, ear angled downward, reading the nuances of the muffled tones. Clark kept his eyes on Bruce. What Clark heard he didn’t have context for and therefore didn’t understand, but he trusted Bruce to have a good read on whether or not they should be concerned. Fighting in the Manor wasn’t necessarily a cause for alarm in the Manor, not with five kids under one roof. Even audible threats of pain and retribution didn’t necessarily warrant a spike in blood pressure, not since Damian’s arrival.

That the raised voices were not Tim’s and Damian’s but Dick’s and Jason’s, however, did alarm Clark. As did the subtle twitch under Bruce’s right eye.

“Excuse me,” Bruce growled as he pushed himself to his feet. “It seems I need to have _a word_ with my children.”

It was a source of endless mystery to Clark how Bruce could stalk out of a room in chinos and a turtleneck and still somehow leave the impression of a cape billowing in his wake. Clark had asked Lois once if he was capable of doing the same thing. Lois had laughed herself nearly as blue as his tights.

After a few seconds’ hesitation, Clark rose from his chair and followed his friend’s path downstairs to where the noise was reaching a crescendo. He came up behind Bruce, who had stopped in the doorway of the den and was staring down at his children.

Dick and Jason were grappling in the middle of the den’s expansive Oriental rug. Around them, toppled books, a downed lamp, an overturn ottoman, and a broken coffee table helped explain the crashes Clark had heard earlier. 

Jason had Dick pinned beneath him. One of Dick’s arms was twisted at a painful-looking angle, and Jason had brought his not inconsequential weight to bear down on his older brother, squashing his face into the thick rug. Clark fought not to shuffle his feet, a nervous habit that irritated Bruce to no end. Jason’s return to the family fold was still fairly new and fragile. His temper, always at the ready as a boy, was now razor-edged. Clark had seen for himself the scars Jason had left on his younger brothers soon after his return to Gotham. A fight with Jason could go bad more quickly than Clark was comfortable with.

However, a quick scan didn’t turn up any blood, and another scan with the help of an x-ray peek confirmed that no bones were broken. As best he could tell, it didn’t seem that any punches had been thrown, or at least none that had landed with any effect. The boys— _men_ , Clark corrected himself—just seemed to be wrestling. But he still didn’t know why.

“Say it!” Jason barked as he pressed his brother’s face deeper into the carpet.

“Never!” came the muffled yet defiant reply. Dick’s feet kicked helplessly as he tried to leverage Jason off his back.

“Say you’re wrong!”

“I’m not!”

Clark glanced to the side where Damian and Tim looked on. Neither child looked particularly concerned or bloodthirsty, which was a good sign. Clark had once had the misfortune of pulling Damian out of a brawl. Damian had bit him. The bite hadn’t even left teethmarks, of course, but both Damian and Clark had been so embarrassed that it had taken weeks before the Waynes and Kents could get together without the teasing driving both participants into a full-body blush.

So Clark was relieved that Damian didn’t seem anxious to defend his older brother, but if anything, Tim and Damian looked baffled. Clark must have shifted his weight slightly, because Tim looked over. Clark raised one eyebrow, one Kon often used and Tim would be able to decipher with ease. 

_What in the world?_

Clark was less fluent in Wayne-speak—Bruce wasn’t known for his communication skills, verbal or non—but he caught the gist as Tim widened his eyes slightly, gave his head a small shake, and then shrugged one shoulder eloquently.

_No frikkin’ idea._

“Jason!”

Though not shouted, Bruce’s command was forceful enough that all four boys startled. Clark came close as well but managed to stop himself. When Bruce sounded that much like a dad, sometimes it was hard not to react like a kid.

However, the distraction was all Dick needed. Clark’s attention snapped back to the main event in time to catch the tail end of whatever disgustingly limber circus move Dick had pulled, but it resulted in Dick swapping positions with his brother. Clark cocked his head, trying to work out how Dick was able to wrap his arm _there_ but twist his spine to grab Jason _there_.

Honestly, there were sometimes when Dick seemed like the metahuman instead of Clark. After all, Clark might be able to lift an airplane over his head, but could he bend over backward and look between his own feet? No, no he could not.

“Give up!” Dick demanded. “Say I’m right!”

“Bite me!”

“I’m warning you, Jason!”

“And I said _bite me_ , you tasteless freak!”

Dick shrugged and shifted his weight. Jason howled with rage as a window-rattling fart blasted in the general direction of his face.

“ _Boys!_ ” Now Bruce sounded more exasperated than stern, and Clark choked down laughter. “Dick, get off your brother. Jason, _don’t stab Dick._ ”

There were more pushing and threats as the two young men untangled themselves and stood before their father. Jason’s face was still flushed red and he was breathing heavily. He scraped the palm of his hand across his forehead, raking his black curls out of his eyes as he shot a glare at his brother. Dick was much more practiced at striking the right mix of penitent and angelic, but his hair flared out like a mussed cockatiel’s plume and he couldn’t quite stifle the smirk on his lips. Clark wondered whether the twitch under Bruce’s eye had intensified, but he had to content himself with studying the rising color in the tips of his friend’s ears.

“Now,” Bruce said, each word as carefully clipped as Alfred’s hedges, “would someone care to tell me why my den has turned into a cage match?”

Clark’s heightened perception marked the braced feet, the sharp inhales, and the tightening fingers, giving him time to brace himself accordingly. He was still unprepared for the explosion of noise as Jason and Dick began shouting again, each trying to tell their side louder than the other. Even with super-hearing, it was hard to separate out the shrieks of rage.

Finally, though, the boys had turned away from Bruce to face each other again and in returning to their argument were no longer talking over each other, which is when Clark finally pieced together what was going on. Bruce caught up at about the same time.

“Are you...” Bruce’s eye was definitely twitching. Clark could hear the muscle spasming. “Do you mean to tell me that you destroyed your grandmother’s Neoclassical coffee table over a disagreement over teenie-bopper pop stars?”

Dick and Jason’s head swiveled in sync to stare at Bruce in open-mouthed horror.

“ _Teenie-bo—_ ”

“Bruce, come _on_!”

Jason jabbed a thumb at his brother. “This idiot thinks freaking Britney Spears is better than _Christina Aguilera,_ ” he said in the same tone that he usually reserved for rapists and Yankees fans.

“Because she IS!” Dick smacked Jason’s hand out of his face and began counting on his right hand. “Britney Spears is amazing. She helped define the pop music industry of the 90s AND early 00s. She’s beautiful. She’s talented.”

Jason scoffed loudly and crossed his arms. “That hack? Talented?! Wake up, Dickhead. It’s all auto-tune!”

“Oh, and I suppose Miss Foghorn Blare is the epitome of a pleasant listening experience?”

Jason gasped. “You take that back! Xtina’s voice is a powerhouse and it is an _honor_ to listen to her!”

“She wouldn’t even rank as Brit-Brit’s backup dancer,” Dick spat.

Clark swallowed as a dark cloud descended over Jason’s face. “One, that is such a lie, and you know it. And two, I don’t recall _Christina_ marrying K-Fed and having a full-scale meltdown, do you?”

Rather than be intimidated by Jason’s throaty growl, Dick leaned in and shot back, “What do you call that anthem performance?”

Jason’s fingers twisted into gnarled claws as he gestured in his brother’s face. “She can’t SING, Dick!”

“She's Britney, bitch! Britney Spears is the TOTAL PACKAGE, and at least she can manage a song without cramming in a million runs. Christina sounds like a drunk yodeler!”

Jason’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Genie in a Bottle is a seminal moment in pop history.”

“More than Oops I Did It Again?!”

“She sang in a freaking Disney movie, Dick. And not just any movie. MULAN!”

“But was she in a Pepsi commercial with Pink and _Beyonce_?! NO.”

To the side, Tim lifted a finger. “Uh, I like Mil—”

**“SHUT UP, TIM.”**

“Even I know that to be an embarrassing lack of taste, Drake, and I didn’t think I could find anything to be more embarrassing than these two.”

“Oh, like your regressed little bubblegum princess is any better.”

“Miss Grande has a four-octave range and more class in her perfectly sculpted pinky finger than you have in your entire stunted body, and you will speak of her with respect.”

Clark rubbed his upper lip furiously, trying to stifle the hysterical laughter bubbling in the back of his throat. Bruce looked like he regretted every moment of his forsaken bachelorhood. Clark had a feeling they would be taking a flight to the Fortress later that evening so Bruce could have some “alone time.” (Which Clark knew was code for escaping the reach of Alfred’s swear jar and indulging in the natural echo chamber that the crystals offered. A solid hour of yelling was a therapeutic experience, much more so than, say, getting into a fistfight with a chainsmoker dressed like a flightless bird.) Clark also made a mental note to break it to Jon that he was never going to be a big brother. _Ever._ Even two seemed like too many right now.

“That’s enough, all of you.” Bruce’s command cut through the four squabbling voices. “Clean up this mess, then all four of you go help Alfred.”

He held up a hand, forestalling the rising wave of protests. “If you have time to destroy my property and argue over caterwauling crooners, then you have time to help Alfred around the house.”

Bruce clapped his hands together once, then pointed to the broken lamp. “Get moving.” Then he turned on heel and marched down the hall, Clark trailing in his shadow.

“Okay, but really, Bruce,” Clark ventured once they were out of earshot. “Who’s your pick?”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t understand modern music anymore. It’s all double-step and rat traps.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and held open the study door for Clark. “Give me Debbie Gibson any day.”

“Huh,” Clark mused as he passed his friend. “I always preferred Tiffany.”

Behind him, Bruce growled low in his throat. “Of course you did.”

From somewhere deep in the Manor, Cassandra trilled, “Shakira, Shakiraaaaa!”

**Author's Note:**

> I can give justifications for each pick, but in the end, they just Feel Right. (Though technically, with the age gap, I think Jason would have been sliiiiightly too young to get caught up in the Brit v Xtina feud of the 90s, but whatever.)
> 
> Also, Cass = https://media.giphy.com/media/yj4eGf6awJYju/200.gif


End file.
